Kaelen and the Archive of the Breathless

More about Kaelen and the Archive of the Breathless

Kaelen had grown accustomed to many doors. Made of stone, of mist, of memory. But the entrance to the Archive of the Breathless was different. There was no threshold, no portal, no visible sign. Only a shimmer in the air, a barely audible echo, slipping between two seconds. The moment came when Varaan paused—his claws resting on soft moss, his shoulders tensing. The world around them lost depth. As if someone had turned off the sound. Kaelen stepped forward. With a single step, she was there. The air was still, not dead—rather tense, as if the place breathed only once in a hundred years. The walls were made of glassy obsidian, crisscrossed by veins like fine cracks. Books floated in the center. Not on shelves. Not stacked. They drifted through the air in slow, hypnotic trajectories. Some whispered. Some breathed. Some seemed to sleep. Not a single one fell. Kaelen walked barefoot, oblivious. Her footsteps made no sound, not even on the translucent floor beneath which spiraled spirals of faded color. Varaan followed her, his movements calmer than ever. Even his breathing was barely audible. Something about this place demanded devotion—or submission. Kaelen didn't yet know which. From the shadows stepped a figure. Neither man nor woman, more an outline of moonlight and dust, with a face Kaelen could never fully recognize. "You are early," the Keeper said. Her voice was like the crackle of old book pages, tender yet sharp. "Or late. It makes no difference here." "I was not summoned," Kaelen said. "But I came." "Some are read before they write." The Keeper extended a translucent hand. A single book floated forward. No title. No cover. When Kaelen touched it, she felt something begin to flicker within her—not pain, but the tug of a forgotten chord. "You can only read what you are willing to lose," the Keeper whispered. On the first page, a single line appeared, in silver handwriting: "What you remember is yours. What you forget is history's." Kaelen closed her eyes. She saw the apple tree in her childhood garden. Her mother's voice telling the nighttime stories. The fleeting glance of a girl she had never called by name. The smell of salt and summer. With a single breath, she let it go. And the book awoke. Pages began to fill—with writing that moved through the air like streams of light. Images, feelings, thoughts. Not from Kaelen's memories, but from those she had perhaps never had. Varaan approached slowly. His eyes met hers. No word was necessary. The Keeper was gone. But a new room had opened—through a wall that hadn't existed before. Even more books waited there, floating, whispering. And as Kaelen stepped over the threshold, she knew: She wouldn't be the same if she left this place. If she ever left again.